


twisted fucker

by thefudge



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Frenemies, Light BDSM, Loki is a sub, Love/Hate, Sexual Tension, and she hates it, because duuuuh, loki and val are cut from the same cloth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 17:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12537396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Takes place during Ragnarok (spoilers). He licks the blood from the corner of his lips and his eyes sparkle with a strange, green fire. Just as she thought. He enjoys the abuse.





	twisted fucker

**Author's Note:**

> sooo, this vignette takes place after their fight scene in the movie. If you recall, the Grand Master assigns them to find Thor & the Hulk (who have escaped). It's a sort of competition to see who can catch him first. So ofc, Loki tries to stir shit with her, Val beats him down, but he manages to put a hand on her forehead and pull out her painful past. Val doesn't appreciate this, so she ties him up and confines him to her apartment, where Thor & Bruce find him later. This is what might've happened before Thor arrived. Enjoy!

“You’re a twisted fucker, you know that?” she says as she wipes the ale from her chin.

Loki leans back in his chair, the chains rattling with his every movement. He cocks his head to the side, appraising her with a guarded smile.

“Yet, you are the one who tied me up and locked me in her boudoir.”

“It’s not a _boudoir_ ,” she makes a face.

Loki raises an eyebrow and nudges his chin towards a corner of the room. “Your garments are on display.”

 Brunnhilde stalks to her drawer and pushes it closed with a punch.

“The view did not bother me, by the way,” he adds slyly, leaning forward as she walks past him.

“Save your charms for your brother,” she mutters, tossing her hair to the side. She won’t be riled up by the God of Mischief.

“So…you think I’m charming?” Loki drawls with a simper.

She decides it’s pointless to engage with him seriously. The only thing he’s good at is teasing. And yet, she’s got a point to prove.

So she stands before him with her hands on her hips.

“I think you’re deranged.” And she slaps him hard over the face, sending him reeling.

Loki gingerly moves his dislocated jaw. Yet, he’s laughing.

She slaps him again, this time making sure to draw a bit of blood. He issues a groan as his head falls back against the chair.

The God is quick at healing, but he doesn’t rush to repair his bruises. He licks the blood from the corner of his lips and his eyes sparkle with a strange, green fire. Just as she thought. He _enjoys_ the abuse.

“Twisted fucker,” she repeats, shaking her head.

His lips are red. He grins. “And what does that make _you_ , Valkyrie?”

She smiles back at him in defiance, although she tastes bitterness on her tongue. He has a gift of turning your words against you.

She brought him to her apartment because she couldn’t trust any holding place to hold _him_ , but she’s beginning to regret that. He always weasels his way out. He may not have his brother’s strength, but he’s got enough wits to fool the best of them.

She used to hear about him after she abandoned Asgard. Odin’s strange Jotun son. An anomaly, a freak. A fallen prince. It sounded like a familiar tune.  He was a failure, and so was she in many ways.

Brunnhilde snaps out of her dreary thoughts. She won’t have to bear him much longer. She just has to find Thor and the Hulk, and get off this planet. And then…face her damnable past.

 _Why_ did he have to remind her? Why did he put his hand on her forehead, why did he draw out her worst memories? Why did he make her relive her fall? Why did he make her relive her glory? She wants to hit him again, leave him unconscious, but he’d _like_ that.

She turns away and stomps towards the exit, grabbing a bottle of ale on the way.

“I’d tell you to stay put, but…” she trails off with a forced grin.

Loki insufferably bows his head, making the chains ripple across his chest.

“I have no choice,” he says with a regal condescension that makes her fingers curl in a fist. “ _You_ didn’t have a choice, either.”

Brunnhilde stops by the door. “Excuse me?”

Loki levels her with a meaningful look. His eyes are not mirthful for once. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Her jaw clicks painfully. “I don’t know what you’re rambling about.”

The God smiles icily. “I would have fled too. Hela can’t be stopped with strength alone. You were only being sensible.”  

She is suddenly angry, _enraged_ that he would compare them like this. That he would reduce her sins to “being sensible”. She was defeated by the Goddess of Death and she hid among the corpses and she didn’t get up. Afterwards, she buried herself on Sakaar like a common low-life. There is nothing _sensible_ about any of this. It’s only a slower way to die.

She marches towards him with a desire to hurt. “You and I are nothing alike.”

Loki cranes his head to behold her. His eyes look at her like she’s a celestial being, but she can see the gears turning in his head, she can see the deception underneath his soft gaze. It’s a part of his nature, he can’t possibly ever be genuine. But his lies are never only _just_ lies.

“It’s why you drink all the time, isn’t it? You can’t bear the reality of your failure,” he adds with a strange lilt to his voice. “Well… join the club.”

 _Join the club_. Failure, it’s their common root. Isn’t that what she’s always thought? Gods, why has she let him inside her head? She hates him. She hates him even more because he’s the only one who saw what she went through. Her forehead is still burning.

“I’d rather not, _thanks_ ,” she retorts with feigned indifference.

But she’s not fooling the God of Mischief.  He raises his chin, offering his jaw. “Have at it, darling.”  

He wants her to take his sculpted features and make them sing with her fists. And she wants to hear this song so badly, her fingers are tingling.

She’s come too close to his chair. Her knees almost knock against his. She can see his chest rise and fall against the chains. Her breath is stuck in her throat.

But she steps back at the last moment.

“Twisted fucker,” she mutters and stalks away from him.

She hears his last reply as she shuts the door behind her.

“I’ll be waiting your return, _Brunnhilde_.”

Her blood freezes in her veins. The name echoes in the chambers of her head like a feral cry.

How does he know her name? How _far_ did he reach into her head?

Her stomach roils with unfamiliar sensations. No one has called her that for centuries.

She is suddenly young again, a warrior maiden with too much ambition in her heart and no sense of limitations. A winged creature with no weights on her back, an Icarus who has not flown too close to the sun. Not yet.

 _Brunnhilde_.

She exhales and straightens her shoulders. The weights are still there. He’s Loki, son of Odin and son of Laufey, a deceiver and a trickster, a God without honor. And she won’t glance back at him. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

 

 

Loki catches her eyes before the door closes shut. What he sees in them is … _potential_. He smiles victoriously.

_Soon, Brunnhilde…_


End file.
